


My Kind of Girl

by HowNowWit, permanentrose



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, F/F, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowNowWit/pseuds/HowNowWit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/permanentrose/pseuds/permanentrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So…" Frankie starts again, and you tense at the teasing edge to his tone, "what kinds of girls are you into, anyway?" Teen Rizzles AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This little piece of summer fluff was co-authored by Permanent Rose and HowNowWit. It started as a crazy idea on tumblr, transitioned into a google drive fest (with lots of tangents), and eventually blossomed into this brainchild. We hope you enjoy. Expect a few chapters.

Sun and sand, the fresh salt air and sharp cries of seagulls overhead. Usually it loosens the tension coiling through tight muscles, but the steady footfalls matching yours pace for pace outweigh any soothing effects from your surroundings.

He knows.

You take a larger than normal bite from your ice cream and the frigid cold numbs your tongue and throat as you swallow. Taste remains elusive.

 _Shit_. This was a huge mistake.

"So." He lengthens the vowel into another syllable, and you grimace, feeling your palms begin to sweat. You rub them along your denim cutoffs and shift your gaze out to the grey horizon, trying to find serenity in the calming stretch of distance.

“So…” he starts again, and you tense at the teasing edge to his tone, “what kinds of girls are you into, anyway?”

You nearly choke on your soft serve cone, spewing out a few sprinkles. Your heart stutters, rattling inside your chest, momentarily stilting your ability to breathe. It’s a habitual reaction—years of denial, years of secrets eating away at your stomach lining.

“Frankie!” you hiss, ducking your head. It’s more than the heat of the sun against the boardwalk that has your cheeks flaming pink. You flick away a sprinkle from your shorts, eyes darting nervously around in reflexive paranoia. A guy in beach shorts passes, boogie board in hand, and you avoid eye contact as you scooch closer to the railing to allow him passage.

You are not ashamed, per se. Just inclined to keep such matters private.

“What? My sister just told me she’s _gay_.” Frankie emphasizes the last word and you cringe again. You want to ask him to say that a bit louder, because you don’t think the guy parasailing a few blocks down heard him yet.

He shrugs, nudging you with his elbow as he has all your life. The gesture annoys you, yet the familiarity is also grounding.

“It’s just us.” He has a goofy grin on his face, and you know he’s enjoying his power. But at the same time, the humor, his easy smile, has you wondering. Makes you think…maybe. Maybe this is not as difficult as you thought.

You crunch into the cone with more gusto than necessary. Ice cream squishes out of the sides and paints your chin. Frankie shoots you a look and you would tell him he’s one to talk, but your mouth is full and unlike someone, you know the definition of manners.

“Oh come on, ‘fraid I’ll steal your thunder?” He’s egging you on, trying to get a rise out of you. You’re ashamed to say it works. A little.

“As if,” you mutter.

You glance at him, tracing the familiar prominent brow and black hair, now gilded by the overhead sun. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity? Fodder for blackmail?”

You know he’s joking and let out a laugh. He smiles at you and stretches an arm behind his head as you lapse into silence.

“So you’re okay with it?” You hate how small your voice sounds.

He must hear it. He turns his head and you feel the fire of his scrutiny on the side of your face.

“ _Okay with it_?” he parrots, incredulous. “Jane, I can’t believe you even have to ask!” He laughs, but there’s a sadness laced in his tone. His eyes say everything, bathing you in the comfort of reassurance. Tension you have been harboring for years, an ache you hardly even notice anymore, unfurls from your muscles with immediate relief. You have picked a worthy confidant.

“Now when you say gay, do you mean, _gay_ gay, or like bisexual?”

You give him a look and he raises his hands. “What? It’s a legitimate question.”

You shake your head and run a hand through your hair, eyes going to the shore again. “Pretty sure I’m only attracted to girls.”

He hums. “So...are you going to answer my other question? I’m dying to know your type.” Though his voice is playful and curious, you can sense a certain amount of pride as well. He is genuinely interested—and rather happy to relate to his sister in such an unexpected way.

“You go first.”

“Okay. Her.” He points, the movement blatant, and you slap his hand out of the air.

“ _Be_ more obvious, numb nuts.”

He rolls his eyes but nods his head towards his target this time instead. “Yeah?” he prompts, eyebrows raised.

You shift, digging your toes into the sand. You’re not one to objectify girls, but surely there’s no harm in answering a few questions?

You try to be discrete in your study. She’s...nice. There’s no denying she’s pretty, with her silvery blonde hair and toned figure, exposed by her tiny bikini. But something about her demeanor, the way she flips her hair over her shoulder, strikes you as...shallow.

“No.” Your answer is definitive, resolute.

Frankie raises his eyebrows. “Just no?”

“No,” you say simply, and wipe the last remnants of melted ice cream onto your shorts.

“Okay.” He rubs his hands against his swim trunks, a look of determination in his eyes as he scans the crowd. “What do you think of her?” He points again, but this time, he flicks his wrist, as if embellishing a point in their conversation. You smile briefly, appreciating the subtlety.

This one is buying postcards at a stall across the boardwalk. Her auburn hair is cropped into a neat pixie cut, and the sun glints off a series of studs decorating each of her ears. Beneath her tank top, you notice a delicate pattern of tattoos weaving their way up her back.

“Nope.” You pop the _p_ with relish.

This is...fun. Out of all the scenarios you’d pictured, all the possibilities that ran through your mind the moment the confession left your mouth, this had not occurred to you.

Frankie offers another suggestion, this time without your prompting. He nods his head toward the path leading to the beach, and you follow his gaze. This one makes you double-take.

“She’s old enough to be my mother!” She has certainly aged well, but you feel ashamed for looking at her with such intentions.

Frankie raises his hands in defense, laughing. “Hey, cougar’s a thing, you know.”

“Ugh.” Your lip curls, and that warmth of acceptance from earlier begins to sour in your stomach. “You disgust me.”

“Hey, okay. Okay.” He grabs your swinging arm and pulls you around. “I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely contrite, and some of the stiff resistance leaves your shoulders. After a moment, you resume your walk, this time treading into the white sand beyond the boardwalk, wandering closer to shore in a lazy stroll.

A gathering of seagulls flaps into flight, and you trace their path. You realize that right now, on this beach beside Frankie, you’re enjoying the first taste of freedom this summer. Perhaps this entire year. You swipe a bare foot across sun-warmed sand and it _screeches_ a soft greeting in response. You smile.

“What about her?”

Your eyes follow his point, and this time you don’t automatically scoff. You find it hard to look away. This girl is wearing a dark grey one-piece. Pink and lighter grey strips color the sides, tracing gentle curves. Light brown, sun-streaked hair sits in a messy bun atop a slender neck. She appears close to your age as she sits alone in the sand beneath a relentless sun, hands busy molding and building some sort of intricate sand creation. Her movements are precise and careful, her hands sure.

You tilt your head, curious, unable to deny the tug you feel somewhere in your middle.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

His words startle you from your reverie, and you become aware of your staring. You jerk your gaze away and skate a hand along your forearm, a nervous tick.

“I didn’t say anything.“ You keep your voice low, embarrassment turning it rougher than usual.

Frankie laughs. “Your face begs to differ.”

“Shut up.” You can feel the blush on your cheeks, and you glare into the crashing waves, understanding why the ocean seems so angry all the time, if it has to endure shit like this every day.

You’ve slowed considerably. Perhaps your subconscious is wary of approaching this girl that makes your skin prickle in ways that has nothing to do with the intensity of a midday sun. Frankie matches your pace, though he seems to be aware of your dragging feet.

“Sooo?” he says, and how have you never realized how annoying his voice is before today? “What’re’ya waiting for? Go talk to her.”

Cold rushes through your veins, and you punch his arm. “Frankie, no.”

“Jane, _yes_.” He shoves you in return, hard enough to make you lose your balance. Anger sizzles along your skin and tightens your fists.

“I said _no_.” You shove him back, and you don’t like the glint in his eye when he steps forward again. You back away, hands up, wary. He may be your little brother, but you’ve tussled with him enough in the past to know body size does not equate to success when it comes to dirty wrestling.

In the end, you should have seen it coming. He lunges, you dodge, but your heel catches on something hard and with a yelp you go down in a tangle of awkward angles and untamed curls.

You lay there, sprawled on your back and staring into sunlight, blinking against the blaring red in your retinas. Pushing up onto your elbows, you catch sight of Frankie, his form spotted with white starbursts. He mouths _you’re welcome_ as he retreats and you glower until you hear sandy footfalls and a pair of feet and delicate ankles enter your field of vision. Shading your eyes, you look up as a figure cuts through the blinding light. After a few blinks to clear the spots, you see a dark grey one-piece with pink stripes. Your eyes go wide and you scramble to your feet.

Hazel eyes gaze at you above freckled cheeks, and you don’t know what to do with your hands. Your feet. Or anything, really.

A glance down reveals mashed lumps of sand, a lone turret and spiral staircase the only evidence of the lost masterpiece. The reality of what just happened crashes into you with more force than the tumultuous ocean waves slowly battling their way to shore. You side-step out of the disaster area.

“I’m so sorry!”

The girl stares at you, brow furrowed, and for a moment all you can do is stare in return.

_God. I am so gay._

“Does your brother make a habit of shoving you into other people’s sand structures, or is this a special occasion?” Her tone is concise, clipped. Each word enunciated in a way that says educated.

_I am so dead._

“I’m sorry,” you can’t seem to stop saying it. You run a hand through your hair, but your fingers catch in a tangle of sand and brine and you almost want to cry.

“I can help rebuild it,” you offer without thinking, though you know even less about building sand structures than you do about geometry.

She stares down at the tumbled and crushed rubble, and you find her expression difficult to read. “Transience is a part of life.” Some emotion skitters across her face, too quickly for you to identify.

You don’t know if she’s talking to you or not, so you stand there, wiping away the gritty sand imbedded into your arms and elbows.

She finally turns her attention to you, and your heart stutters beneath the careful scrutiny of hazel eyes. You become aware of your plain black bikini top, the rips and tears in your cutoffs. The squirrel’s nest that is your hair, at mercy to the wind all afternoon. Her nose is barely even with your chin, but that doesn’t stop the nerves from rattling you from head to toe.

“Are you hurt?”

The question takes you off guard. “No, I think your…” you wave your hand, “uh, thing cushioned my fall.”

“Palais du Prince.”

You blink at the sudden onslaught of foreign vowels and consonants, the flawless French accent. Your eyes travel to her lips, briefly, without permission.

“The Prince’s Palace. It’s in Monaco,” she continues, as though that will clear things up. “The independent microstate on the eastern coastline of France.”

“Right.” You don’t know how to respond.

She takes your ineptitude in stride. “I summered there once, during my freshman year.”

She’s in high school? This thought is both alarming and invigorating. She’s close to your age, but her IQ leaves you coughing and sputtering in the dust of her intellect. As if that isn’t enough, you lose your words when she gazes at you expectantly.

Conversations generally require effort from _both_ participants.

As the ensuing silence stretches too long, her face falls, closes off, and panic kicks your heart into sixth gear. “I’m Jane,” you blurt.

“Maura,” she says, offering her hand in a formal greeting. It’s a beautiful name, and you catch yourself before you repeat it aloud like an idiot. Her hand is soft, warm, gritty from an afternoon of sculpting.

“Jane,” you offer, _again_. You wince, clearing your throat against the gravel that is your voice.

“Jane,” she says, as though trying it out, committing it to memory along with your features, and you blush.

“So, uh…” You glance down at the wreckage and she settles onto the sand, Indian-style, and you mirror her pose.

You look around for instruments, molds, something, but there is only one small spatula, now lying discarded near her knee. It becomes clear that she’s worked entirely by hand, and that makes your mistake earlier even worse. Your hands hover in the air as you try to find something to do, some way to help.

“There are different types of sand,” she says abruptly, and you startle. She pinches a small amount from the right side of the demolished structure and holds it up for you to inspect.

“For instance, this is calcium carbonate, probably ground into existence from shellfish and coral over the past half billion years.” You lean in, inspecting the unassuming ancient particles. It just looks like regular sand to you—off-white grains with a few specks of black thrown in—but you listen anyway. “Silicon dioxide is the most common constituent, found in inland continental settings and the coastal regions of non-tropical climates. You would know it by its common name, quartz.”

Her voice is clear and quiet with certainty, pleasant to the ear. You lean forward, elbows on knees.

“How can you tell?”

Her eyes dart to you, as though she had forgotten she had an audience. She ducks her head back to her work, and the bashfulness heats your skin in new ways.

“Grain size, texture, chemical makeup,” she recites, and you watch the way one corner of her mouth twitches up as she squares the edge of a crenulated turret. “In fact, the composition of sand goes a long way to establishing the color of a beach’s shore.” Finished, she drops the spatula and her eyes finally meet yours once more. The excitement in her gaze, the warmth of her smile—

“No one knows how many types of sand there are in the world. It is, quite literally, impossible to determine.”

—it makes you realize there are mysteries and beauty in this world that you have barely begun to comprehend. You take a deep breath and stare out to sea, unsettled by the swirling tide of emotions that makes it difficult to breathe.

The waves edge closer to your burrow, and while you imagine a moat may keep it at bay for a while, before long you will be submerged. You glance at Maura, but find her focused on detailing the brickwork of a walkway.

“You know a lot about sand,” you comment, offhand. You smile, but she doesn’t look at you. In fact, she tenses, and the smile slowly drops from your face as you wonder what you’ve said wrong.

The silence feels choked.

“I enjoy learning,” she mutters, and in that small voice, the slight hunch of her shoulders and the tightening of her fist around the spatula, you hear a thousand moments of teasing and ridicule.

Oh.

The realization sends confusion and anger and desperation in equal measure coiling through your chest, and you wrestle against the urge to reach out.

“I like your swimsuit,” you say instead, a paltry substitute. “It’s nice.”

Again, she talks as she works, but some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “It’s aerodynamically designed to allow for least resistance in the water.”

“Yeah. And that, too.” You can no longer hide the smile on your face.

She glances up, this time for a longer span of heartbeats, and you wonder if she is checking to see if you are making fun of her. The thought makes you sad, but you hold your smile, open and inviting, to try and show that teasing is the farthest from your mind.

She shifts, opening her posture and facing you more fully as she studies your own bathing suit. Or, the half of it visible. You resist the urge to fidget, instead running your fingers through the fine sand at the castle’s base. _Calcium carbonate._

“Yours is aesthetically pleasing in its simple design.”

You pause, trying to figure out if that is a compliment or an insult.

“It accentuates your bone structure,” she continues with a decisive nod, as though coming to a conclusion.

This is even harder to decipher. You stop trying, instead just watching this girl with her unique oddities, her intelligent words and expressive eyes. This time, she does not shy from your gaze, and you find yourself staring for a different reason, wondering at the unexpected affinity you feel for this girl who regales strangers with sand facts and almost-compliments.

A wave barrels over the bounds of Maura’s second palace and you yelp as the shock of cold soaks your lap. Rather than exclaiming in protest, Maura lets the wave envelope her, sifting her fingers through the swirling tide and watching the newest structure melt and drift away.

“All that begins has its end,” she says.

You stand and make a face, swiping at the seat of your now soggy shorts. The newly wet sand sucks at your feet and ankles as you shimmy in discomfort.

“My butt is wet.” You shake your leg again. _Ugh_. Things are chafing.

“So it would seem.”

 _Did she just…?_ You snap your head up to ensure your ears aren't deceiving you. Sure enough, she stands there grinning, eyes dancing, and your lips part in surprise and mock affront as your hands move to your hips.

“Shut up,” you say, automatic, and her answering laugh is light and full and pulls laughter from your own chest.

You love it. It feels freeing and easy, the way your voices join the cry of seagulls and the steady rush of ocean tide. The wave recedes, leaving laughter and drooping sand lumps in its wake.

“Where are you from, Maura?” The idea that she may live across the country makes your stomach slosh, and you suddenly wish you had brought your phone with you.

“Born and raised in Boston,” she answers.

“No kidding.”

She doesn’t have much of an accent. You raise your eyebrows, hardly daring to hope. Fate is not a construct in which you believe, yet you find it difficult to attribute this meeting to mere coincidence.

Maura tilts her head, and the new angle casts eyelash shadows across her cheeks. The effect, combined with the way she clasps a hand around her elbow behind her back, stalls your thoughts so there is only you and her and the beach. It feels important, this moment under the sun with this girl. The picture imprints in your mind, as though asking for a memory. You give it proper deference and almost miss Maura’s next words.

“You have affiliations with Boston as well?”

You chuckle and run a hand through your messy hair. “More like I live there, too.” You spare a thought to how you must look—the wind has wrecked havoc with your hair the entire day, and your shorts are drenched and heavy, hanging too low on your hips—but an emotion flickers across Maura’s face, drawing your attention.

“That’s—” she begins.

“Jane!”

The voice from across the beach tugs you prematurely away. Maura glances behind you, but you know that voice, and you sigh in frustration.

“Hey, Maura, I—”

“ _Jane_!”

It’s Ma, carrying a blanket. Pop follows behind, carrying the familiar lunch cooler, filled with peanut butter sandwiches your mother makes in bulk to cut back on the expenses of dining out. Frankie and Tommy shuffle in the sand not far behind. Ma waves, her arm flapping like a flag in the wind, beckoning you to join the family.

You turn back to Maura, disappointment weighing your shoulders. “Listen, I gotta go…”

Her face falls, but she takes a deep breath and smiles. “It was nice meeting you, Jane. Perhaps our paths will cross again soon.”

The words well in your chest, even as doubt tempers the delicate surge of hope. “Yeah, maybe.”

You pick up your flip-flops and run across the sand, long strides easily closing the distance between you and your family. You help Ma spread the blanket and distribute the sandwiches. As you settle onto the worn fleece surface, you dare a glance back at Maura, but she’s already gone, leaving nothing more than the remains of her castle, dispersing with the incoming tide.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me, y'all, and I can't look at it anymore. The rest is finished and will be posted next week, so no long waits. I promise. Without further adieu, I hope you enjoy!

Gleaming lights and streaks of color. The night feels electric, air permeated with promises of greasy food, funnel cakes, and cotton candy. Playful shrieks of children echo across the fairgrounds, and you pause at the busy entrance to absorb the atmosphere.

A Ferris wheel glows to your left. Its towering height and flashing spokes stand out against the night sky, bright and dazzling. If you squint, the colored lights from the many rides blur together into rainbow streaks. You smirk. A fitting way to end the day.

You wonder if you should mark the calendar for sentimental reasons. First time coming out.

“Ma said we had to be back by ten. Because of Tommy.” 

It’s a harsh reality check and you grunt at Frankie, annoyed. You look at your eager ten-year-old brother. His eyes are as wide as spools of cotton candy. “Yeah, I know,” you sigh. “So what’s first?”

“Tilt-a-whirl,” you and Frankie say simultaneously, at the same time Tommy yanks you anxiously toward the arcade.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” you offer, always a fair option when settling sibling disputes.

“ _Orrrr_ we could just dump Tommy with some cash and pick him up later?” Frankie whispers, a devious offer. It’s enticing. Too enticing. 

“Tommy.” You gain his attention with some difficulty. He’s fascinated by a clown rapidly shaping balloon animals a few feet away. “Listen, how’d you like to win something from that arcade?”

He nods vigorously. “I want that water blaster! I can play with it in the ocean tomorrow.”

“I bet you can win it.” You don’t think you’ve ever spoken this sweetly to your twerp of a brother, but he’s eagerly drinking in your words. “I’m gonna give you some money. Here.” He grabs eagerly for the wad of cash in your hand, but you hold it just out of reach. “But you have to stay here until Frankie and I come and get you. Understand?”

You make him repeat your command and pinkie promise—a pact too grave for a ten-year-old to take lightly—before doling out an amount of money that will keep him entertained long enough to allow you and Frankie to enjoy yourselves. He grins and you watch long enough for him to disappear into the cavernous arcade room. A twinge of worry squeezes your heart as he’s swallowed into the crowd, but you shake it off and turn to Frankie.

“Let’s go.”

#

_Why do corndogs always taste better at the fair? Maybe it’s a special type of grease._

Frankie pulls you from your ponderings as you slather another packet of mustard on the last bite and struggle to maneuver the piece from the wooden stick and into your mouth.

“What’s next?”

You shrug. “We could always do the bumper cars.” They hold less appeal now that you have an actual driver’s license, but the chance to run into people on purpose—especially Frankie—is not something you’ll turn down.

You enjoy the rides and food with the same enthusiasm you always have, but perhaps with a bit more dignity now that you’re older. You’ll be headed off to college in another year, and the impending change has never felt so present as it does now. Between rides your eyes are drawn to the dark sky above. They roam the stars with a new, contemplative quiet that stirs something slow and wondering in your chest. You feel small, staring up into that vast darkness dotted with age-old constellations, yet at the same time it is liberating. Like anything can happen. The two balance out, and you’re left feeling at peace. 

You're shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth when you ram into something. The force is hard enough to spin you around and you glare for the perpetrator until you notice the girl frowning back at you, rubbing her shoulder. 

“Maura?” You turn to face her fully.

“Jane.” Her arm drops to her side and she quirks her mouth. “You have a habit of leaving damage in your wake, it seems,” she says, and you’re not imagining the humor in her voice.

For a moment, all you can do is stare, hardly believing your luck. Maura holds your gaze before glancing to the side and you remember Frankie.

“Oh, yeah.” You jab a thumb in his direction. “This is my little brother, Frankie.”

Maura once again offers a hand to shake for introductions, and Frankie takes the formal gesture in stride.

“Pleasure,” he says, all smiles.

You side-eye him, but any sarcasm is notably absent from his tone. Your appreciation for him goes up a few notches.

“Nice to meet you, Frankie.” Maura smiles politely at him a few moments but her gaze returns to you. The connection is like a pulse along your skin, and you don’t realize your answering smile until Frankie shuffles his feet, breaking your paralysis.

Unfortunately, you still don’t know what to say. You stare at Maura and she stares back. 

“Tommy.”

You jump at Frankie’s sudden outburst and turn to him. “Huh?”

“We left Tommy, and I’ve got to go check on him.” He gives you a look, eyes widening to convey some meaning that still eludes your grasp.

When he passes by, you grip his shirt and mutter, “What are you _doing_?”

He leans close, under the guise of adjusting his coat sleeve, and whispers in your ear. “Self-appointed wingman. What can I say?”

You owe me, he mouths, once again backing away, wiggling his eyebrows. 

You make a mental note to pummel your brother when you get back to the hotel room tonight. The thought might hold more bite if you could stop yourself from smiling.

“Is he okay?” Maura steps up next to you and you both watch Frankie retreat.

“Yeah.” You wave your hand dismissively. “He’s always been weird.”

Your fond smile lingers as you glance at her. The glow from carnival lights illuminates her profile from behind, and you feel a whisper of that same freeing peace from before. As she turns her face and hazel eyes focus on you, you decide this time you won’t let her slip away.

“What?” she asks.

Shaking your head, you move your attention outwards, eyes spanning the bustle of fairgoers and dizzying attractions. “Anything in particular you want to do?”

She worries the thin strap of her purse where it crosses her shoulder, indecision in the lines on her brow and the absent way she tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. The action draws attention to the delicate angle of her elbow, the small protrusion of her wrist. 

Your own decision has made you bold and lighthearted in a novel way, and you clutch the sensation to your chest as you nod your head in a random direction and start out. Maura follows in tacit agreement by your side, and the silence is anticipatory rather than awkward.

You kick a rock from your path and it skitters across the ground, sending up puffs of dust. “What brings you to the fair?”

“It’s a typical recreation for youths around our age.” She rubs a palm absently along her forearm. “I thought it a fitting pastime while on vacation at the beach.”

You stare. Maura looks so small, and yet sometimes the words that come out of her mouth make you forget she’s younger than you. And apparently has never been to a fair before. Time to remedy that.

“Typical recreation,” you repeat, and Maura tenses. Her face stiffens the same way it did on the beach, contentment turned to closed-off awareness. Anticipating censure once again? You can’t have that.

Stepping ahead, you turn and walk backwards, grinning at Maura’s widened eyes. 

“Jane!” She reaches out as though to steady you, but her hands fall away when people naturally dodge out of the way and you meet no resistance. She laughs and you love the sound.

“So,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back and affecting a serious expression, just to see her reaction. Another laugh. You suppress your smile. “You had to have an idea what you wanted to experience at this fitting pastime. First time at a fair. We’ve got to make it memorable.”

Relief loosens her shoulders and lights her eyes, and you suspect she was embarrassed to admit her inexperience. Easy enough to mend. She’s slowed her pace considerably, but you keep walking backwards and she follows.

“Here.” You extend your hands in invitation, and wiggle your fingers for emphasis when she shoots you an incredulous look. “C’mon. Work with me here.”

With a deep sigh, she takes your hands. Her palms are warm against yours, soft and light. You hold tight and let your arms hang.

“Now close your eyes.”

“We’ll fall.”

“What part of our very short history together makes you think I’d let us fall?”

She purses her lips in a mix of amusement and disbelief. “All of it?”

You consider for a moment and concede, “Fair enough.” You roll your shoulders, making your joined arms swing. “But I won’t let us fall. Consider it an exercise in concentration.”

“Jane.”

You smirk and mimic her with a solemn, “Maura.”

She tugs on your hands and you slow further. The increased thumping of your heart drowns out shouts and other background noises, focusing your awareness to the small contact where palm meets palm. The same way darkness heightens the sensation of touch. 

After searching your eyes for a long moment, Maura closes her own. 

“Are you always this strange?” Her steps have grown more careful, but her poise as she walks never falters: shoulders back, head up. Like she attended a finishing school instead of middle school.

“Maybe.” There’s laughter in your voice and Maura hears it, coaxing her lips to curl.

She’s beautiful, you realize, with that frown of concentration and caution between her brows and the small smile that marks the start of trust. It pulls at your stomach with a pleasant tug.

“Now. What do you want to do?” you ask again.

Someone bumps into your shoulder, just a glancing touch, but you jerk to a standstill. Maura’s hands tighten around yours and you pull up and squeeze, silently asking her to stop. She is slow to do so, and suddenly you are close. Close enough to notice her eyes dance behind her eyelids, which remain shut, just like you asked. Close enough to see the delicate wrinkles of her frown, the slight part of her lips, and you want nothing more than to trace the lines that make up that expression and gaze into the eyes below, to glimpse that bright intelligence that you can only hope to admire, never match. Swallowing, you give her palms a slight squeeze and step back.

“Well?” you finally ask.

“I had thought to try my hand at a few games,” she admits. She opens her eyes and you smile.

“Was that so hard?”

She doesn’t appear startled at your proximity. Instead she holds your gaze and tilts her head, letting the silence stretch and making you even more aware of how much you like to stare at her, how your hands are still clasped in the small space between. It’s ridiculous, really. Because surely this girl doesn’t feel—

“Your hands are sweaty.”

“Oh.” Mortified, you immediately let go, but Maura is slower to release her grip.

“I didn’t say it was unpleasant,” she says, and only lets go when she turns to study the many booths lining the walkway. She strolls ahead, and you take a few moments to steady your breathing and make sense of what just happened. If anything.

When you catch up, you notice Maura eyeing a large pink and white stuffed bear on display as one of the prizes. It’s big enough to deserve its own area code. When she glances at it a third time—the furtive eye dart half-hidden—you come to a decision.

_Well, why not? Go big or go home._

“Let’s try that one,” you say, pointing to the water pistol game beneath the bear in question.

The game is simple enough. Aim the water gun and shoot the stream into a sensor for a measured span of time. Best shot wins.

You both pay and pick your guns. Maura is surprisingly good. The monkey alongside her column climbs at a steady rate until the alarm sounds and the light on top flashes green. Maura’s smile is brilliant when she turns to you.

“You sure you haven’t done this before?” you ask as the attendant calls out the winner and the streams of water peter out to nothing.

“It’s all about calculating the force of the stream and gravity’s affect on its horizontal motion.” She gazes up at you, all straightforward sincerity, not a bit of pretentious pride. Like it’s obvious.

You blink at her and fight the smile threatening to bloom. “Right.”

The attendant shuffles over. “You can choose any on the lower two racks,” he announces, gesturing behind him.

You place your hand over Maura’s before she can choose a lesser prize, and nod your chin towards the bear, hanging high on his own peg. “How much for him?”

The attendant turns around and then gives you a smile, his eyes darting to Maura. “Double bull's-eye, twice in a row.”

Maura seems crestfallen, but you turn to her, place a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t step away. “Let’s go for it.”

This time, you win. Barely. 

The bear is yours, and you don’t care you spent the entirety of your last allowance in trying to win him. You tuck him under your arm as Maura congratulates you and you set off to explore more of the fairgrounds.

“You staying at a hotel?” you ask.

“We have a beach house.”

You raise your eyebrows. _Fancy_.

“Wanted to get out of everyone’s hair?” You smile at her, thinking of big families and nosy relatives. 

“The house is most likely empty. My father is a professor at university. My mother’s working on her art and visiting a local gallery while we’re here.“

An artist? And a professor? You swallow a lump of something unpleasant when you recall your father’s lifelong profession as a plumber. The feeling swirls uncomfortably in your stomach, something you can’t name, and you squeeze the bear tighter. 

“Oh. That must be nice. More room to spread out.”

She gives you a strange look, as though unsure how to respond. “It’s adequate.” She picked the second word carefully, and you sense her pull away for a bit. 

“You have siblings?” Maura asks, when you retreat to your own thoughts.

“Yeah, two. You met Frankie, and then there’s Tommy. He’s still in middle school.”

She’s silent a while, fingers tugging at her purse strap again. “I’m an only child.” Her tone is strange, hollow around the edges. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances away.

There’s a story there. You can feel it. But you also know now isn’t the time to ask if she feels lonely between empty walls the same way you feel isolated amidst arguing parents and intrusive brothers.

You nudge her with the bear, wishing a return to the lightness from before. She turns to you, a depth to her gaze you haven’t seen before, but she gives you a small smile and hesitantly nudges back. You bump her again, and she swerves with the push, expecting it this time. Her smile widens, more genuine.

An only child. This is a novel concept, and you have trouble wrapping your mind around it. No hand-me-downs. An empty house, no yelling or screaming. No noisy toys or loud TV. No slammed doors.

The bear is cumbersome, and you juggle him between hands. Maura chuckles as you struggle, almost dropping him at one point, but eventually you find a comfortable position: propped against your hip like an enormous stuffed child.

Maura shakes her head at you, but the weight and distance have receded from her eyes.

You’re aware of her beside you, how her arm brushes yours occasionally. You’re fairly certain it’s on accident, and keep telling yourself this lest your mind start to entertain hopes that will only leave you disappointed at best and devastated at worst. No. You force yourself to the present, determined to enjoy what is.

You wander aimlessly for a while, admiring the sights and sounds as you stroll side by side, the bear tucked under your arm. Conversation is surprisingly easy. On your second lap around the grounds, you notice the barn. Maura follows your point with her eyes, and her smile is all the answer you need.

The Clydesdales are kept in their stalls, bars across one half, with the area above the stall door left open. A few heads hang out, ears pricked in interest at your footfalls. It smells of wood shavings and manure, leather and sweat, and you wrinkle your nose at the olfactory assault. You pause in the entrance as you attempt to adjust. Maura, unaffected, continues on and your mind reels once you get a sense of size. 

They’re massive. You knew they were draft horses, and you’d seen them in the Budweiser commercials, sure, but they’re much bigger in person than you expected. 

“Horses are lovely creatures,” she says. 

She approaches one curious fellow with a hand held out, palm up and fingers flat. Ears swiveling, the horse lowers his nose and gives her palm a short _whiff_ , lips twitching along her skin, as though searching for a treat. She bends forward and blows air into his face. You can’t help but notice how small Maura appears next to this giant, and how dwarfed her hand is in comparison to his mouth as his nostrils flare briefly. But his ears swivel forward after the apparent introductions, and he allows Maura’s pets and scratches along his nose and onto his neck.

“They can be misunderstood,” she continues, “if people don’t take the time to learn their language.”

You stand to the side and slightly back, watching the interaction. 

“Let me guess. You ride.”

She reddens and strokes her palm up along the horse’s face, avoiding your eyes. “Dressage,” she clarifies. “Since I was six.”

You shake your head. “Is there anything you can’t do?” You mean it as a compliment, but the flicker you see in Maura’s eyes tells you that there may be more of an answer—and a story—behind that question than you expected. 

“You can pet her if you want,” she says instead.

You swallow and shove your hands into your pockets. “It’s a she?”

“Based on the genitalia.” You blush at her use of the word, and Maura pats the horse’s neck with more force than you expected. The horse seems to enjoy it. “Yes, she’s a mare.” 

“That there’s Daisy.” 

You both turn at the voice and see a handler—stablehand? keeper? You don’t know the terminology—leaning against the opposite wall. 

“Daisy,” Maura repeats with a nod.

You eye the horse, craning your neck to meet her eyes. What a ridiculous name for a hairy mountain. Like naming a turtle fluffy. 

Maura thanks the man while you try to come to a silent agreement with Daisy through eye contact alone. _Alright, Dais. You’re not comfortable, I’m not comfortable. Just let me pet you for posterity’s sake and we can both continue on with our lives_.

Daisy swivels an ear. You interpret that as agreement rather than indifference.

If Maura notices your reluctance, or the way you snatch back a hesitant hand when Daisy makes a sudden move, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she takes your hand and pushes it beneath the horse’s nose, well within biting distance. You resist.

“It’s okay,” Maura murmurs. “She won’t bite. I promise.”

You stop pulling and allow Maura to place your hand. The hairs on Daisy’s chin scrape against your palm. It tickles. You squirm a bit and ignore the smile you can see on Maura’s face in your periphery.

The nose is softer than you expected, the dry skin warm and pliant. Its lips twitch under your fingers, as though you are not the only one ticklish. Liquid brown eyes, lined with long eyelashes, gaze back at you, and with Maura’s palm covering your own, you feel some of the anxiety abate.

Maura guides your joined hands along the horse’s face, listing each part you touch: “Cheek, muzzle, forehead, forelock, poll.” The hair is both coarse and soft beneath your fingers. Maura smiles when the horse ducks her head and butts her nose into Maura’s chest, a forceful movement that pushes her a step back. 

You have a heart attack. Maura laughs. 

“And ears,” she finishes, reaching up to give a hearty scratch. The horse dips its head, leaning into the motion.

 _Well, damn_.

You start to smile.

A hoof bangs against the stall door, loud and sudden, and you jump back. You’re surprised you’re still standing with the rapid thrum of your pulse.

“Want a picture?” the stablehand asks.

No, you want a Valium, but one look at Maura’s face and you know your answer. You pose on either side of the animal—granted, you’re a bit farther away than Maura, but you muster a surprisingly easy smile for the camera.

It’s a Polaroid, but the quality matters little once the colors and details fade into view. There’s Maura and you, with the bear tucked under your arm, and Daisy. The entire scene is surreal, but it is Maura’s smile your eyes return to, full and uninhibited, and the way she leans just a bit to the side, closer to you.

Your chest tightens. You love it.

Maura presses close to your shoulder, her warmth new and comfortable along your side. It makes your heart pound and you hold still, so still, to try to soak the sensation into memory. You give her the picture and she runs a finger slowly along the edge. You can’t read her face, but she continues to lean against you, shoulder to shoulder.

A ping issues from your person. You frown, meeting Maura’s amused gaze as another two pings ring out in quick succession.

“I believe your pocket is impatient.”

“Oh, yeah.” You juggle the bear and manage to extract the ancient flip phone from your back pocket without dropping it.

The first text is from Frankie. 

_U commin back? Ma’s pissed._

The other two are from your mother.

_Janie, where are you?_

_Get back here now._

You check the time and groan. “I’m late,” you tell Maura with an apologetic wince. “Curfew.”

“Best not to keep them waiting, then.”

You both stand facing each other. The scent of manure is still unbearable. It’s awkward.

“I had a lot of fun,” you say, staring at your feet as you scuff dirt across the concrete with your toes.

“As did I.”

You’re at a loss for words. You don’t want to say goodbye, but you’re unsure how to ask to see her again. To say you want to keep her in your life, that you enjoy her presence the same way flowers bend towards sunlight.

“There’s a party tomorrow,” Maura blurts and you look up. “At a friend’s house. I had considered attending.”

Your affinity for this girl wraps tight around your skin and tugs, leaving you breathless.

“Would you want to come?” she finally asks, and you don’t think you’re imagining the hope in her eyes.

“I’d have to ask my parents,” you say, but you’re smiling, stepping closer.

“Of course.” She nods, suddenly all business, and holds out her hand. “Can I have your phone?”

You stare at her blankly.

Her lips purse, the corners twitching upwards. “It’s traditional to exchange information in order to keep in touch with someone.” 

You’re beginning to get a handle on Maura’s particular flavor of humor. There’s no malice in the teasing, and you rather think she enjoys witnessing your brief flares of awkwardness, if the gleam in her eye is any judge. At least it’s good for something.

“Yeah. Right.” You fumble your cell out of your back pocket again and exchange information. Her iPhone pings, a soft, high note, when you send her a text.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” you venture, tucking away the phone. “Assuming I’m not grounded.”

She laughs. “I look forward to it.”

“Here. Don’t forget your bear.” You hold it out but she doesn’t take it.

Her brow furrows. “But you won it.”

You urge it into her hands, dismissive. As though it’s nothing.

“It’s yours.” You can’t help but feel you’re talking about more than the stuffed animal.

She holds the bear carefully, like it’s more than just stuffing and sewn polyester. “Thank you.” Her tone is small but full of meaning.

“Welcome,” you say as you back away, a blush creeping up your neck. You hear another ping and cringe.

Maura smiles and raises a hand in a small wave. “Bye, Jane.”

#

It isn’t until after Ma’s scolding and you’re in the hotel room that you find the Polaroid in your pocket. You sit on the side of your double bed, cradling the captured memory in your palm.

You pleaded your case with Ma, and the fact you finally made a friend that’s a girl tips the scales and convinces her to say yes to the party. You might have also told her it was supervised by Maura’s parents. But that’s neither here nor there.

Now there is only slumbering breaths and your father’s snores to fill the darkness. Frankie rolls over in bed and nudges your shoulder blade. 

“You smell like a frickin’ barn,” he whispers.

“Shut up, Frankie.” You pull the sheet closer to your chin.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then there’s another poke to your shoulder. “So how’d it go?” His voice is serious this time.

You consider not answering, but he did help you out. “She’s…” you trail off with a sigh. Words have never felt so inadequate.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That good, huh?”

You lean over and hit his bicep. “ _Shut up_ , Frankie.”

“Ow! Why you gotta…” he grumbles.

You curl up and face the other way, eyes wide and sleepless, the starchy fabric of the pillowcase crinkling beneath your cheek. Nerves clamber through your insides like escaped monkeys, wreaking havoc with what ifs and maybe nots. Everything is so new. Exciting, but so so new you don’t know what you feel.

You stare at the wall and think of the Polaroid tucked safely beneath your pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

_Damn._

“I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”

You didn’t realize you had spoken aloud, and your glance at Maura is contrite. She smiles at you, however, and the butterflies subside. You eye the spacious monstrosity once more, head craned back.

“I thought you said it was at a house. Not a mansion.”

Maura catches a stray lock of hair from the wind and tucks it behind her ear as she gazes up at the building, unimpressed. “This is the Fairfield summer home.”

“Do they have one for every season?” you joke, but your nerves leak into your tone. You are in way over your head.

“Jane.” The way she says your name feels important. Makes _you_ feel important. The thought is both distracting and disturbing, and you frown at the grandiose monstrosity with greater vigor. She grasps your elbow, grip light, but enough to draw your attention. “There is no reason to feel intimidated.”

_Maybe not for you_. You don’t say it out loud. You don’t want to see her face fall when she realizes the vast chasm between the orbits of your respective worlds. How your mother clips coupons to save fifty cents on peanut butter, and your brothers wear your hand-me-downs. And her idea of a casual party involves million dollar mansions in a neighborhood where you counted more Carreras and 911 Turbos than you’d ever seen in your life.

You follow her up the circled drive. Mansion is an apt descriptor. The design is reminiscent of the Ayer Mansion, with its grandiose colonnades and flared staircases. You’d visited on a school trip a few years back. Music pulses from the interior. The deep bass vibrates in your chest and rattles your bones, makes you aware of every drawn breath.

She opens the door, one of those with a handle and latch rather than a knob, and there is nothing but music and undulating limbs, red solo cups and the distinct stench of unwashed bodies and alcohol.

Much like the stables from the previous night, you pause and take a few seconds to adjust to the assault on your senses. Maura, noticing your absence, turns back—all open eyes and hopeful smile—and tugs you by the hand. You are hopeless to resist.

_Maybe parties aren’t that bad_ , you think as the crowd swallows you whole. Maura’s hand stays in yours as you weave and zag, following, more focused on the gentle pressure of palm against palm than any sort of direction.

“Maura!” A boy approaches in a red polo shirt, holding a glass of what appears to be champagne. 

She stops and smiles, a smile that twists your stomach until it churns. Her grip loosens, falls away. He wraps her in a hug, forcing you to sidestep when Maura returns the embrace, bumping your elbow. Her eyes close briefly and you look away, trying to contain the abrupt pressure in your chest that feels as though your insides want to crawl through your skin.

Your attention strays to the keg perched atop a table in an adjoining room, visible between breaks in the crowd. Temptation colors your taste buds for a moment, but you blink and look resolutely away. It would set a bad example for Frankie. Ma would disown you. Furthermore, you want to be in charge of your faculties tonight.

Another graceless arm knocks into your side and this time you push back. The owner shoots you a _what the hell_ look but your stony stare sends him on his way. Glancing around, you roll your shoulders against the rising pressure of claustrophobia. Bouncing bodies and tight spaces with music dulling your hearing at every passing second is not your idea of fun.

A touch of cold fingers on the sensitive skin just above your elbow draws you back to the present. To Maura. Who is introducing you to the tanned boy with the popped collar and full lips that declare entitlement in the smirking arch of his cupid’s bow.

“Garrett, this is Jane. Jane, Garrett.”

“Pleasure,” Garrett says. It sounds nothing like Frankie’s greeting the night before, and the way his eyes run across your frame, analyzing your clothes and lingering in places they shouldn’t makes you want to throw beer into his face.

A stiff nod of your head is all you offer.

“Welcome to the Fairfield Midsummer Bash. Make yourself at home.” He turns to Maura. The tilt of his shoulders and the placement of his feet effectively cut you from the conversation. It sends a message of familiarity with which you cannot hope to compare. “I didn’t know you were coming. I would’ve bought your favorite.” He raises his champagne glass.

“Oh, well…”

A burly boy swoops in from behind, knocks into Garrett’s back hard enough to make him stagger and nearly spill the sloshing drink. While they are busy bumping fists and exchanging greetings loud enough to be heard over the music, you lean closer to Maura, now accessible with Garrett’s attention elsewhere. 

“Friend of the family, huh?” You keep your voice civil, even though your shoulders twitch with the urgency of time galloping forward, rushing towards something. Away from you.

“Garrett?” She glances at you and then towards him, and all you can see is her profile, the line of her jaw and the soft brush of her eyelashes in a blink. “Yes,” she finally says. She doesn’t elaborate. You don’t ask for an explanation. 

You hear enough when she laughs at one of his jokes and agrees to tour a new addition to the library wing.

_A library wing_.

It’s inevitable. Garrett steals her away. Although, you admit to yourself that descriptor is inaccurate when the stolen desires to follow. No.

You lose her. To a winsome smile and a large hand settled on the small of her back. Not even her grip on your wrist, hastily caught as they passed, is enough to keep you anchored. Amid the shuffle and bumps and _excuse me_ s, she lets go. 

You drift to a stop, a buoy cut loose and left to the sea’s devices. You end up in a small alcove, the crowd less dense and the air less noxious. You watch the space where she disappeared, now filled with meandering teenagers more drunk than sober, and shame bleaches your veins clean. How foolish to imagine this differently, how misguided to imagine more.

For a while, you wander aimlessly, shaking off sloppy pickup lines and attempts to dance. The fringes of activity cater to your wish for space. You don’t know how long you’ve been there, how many times you consider leaving, or why you stay, when you hear her voice: stern, annoyed.

“Garrett, no.”

It filters through a space in the reverb. You turn and push through the crowd. Searching.

Another call, colored with the pitch of distress: “ _Stop_.”

You jog, ignoring the shouts of protest when you ram into shoulders and clip elbows. Your eyes scan, growing desperate, until you spot them. They’re in the main dance room. Garrett hovers over her, Maura pressed against a wall and her hands at his shoulders, pushing. He leans in and she turns her face to the side.

You grab his polo in two fists and yank, spinning to gain more leverage and pull him off.

“She said no, asshole!” You shove him and he staggers away. His new red solo cup sloshes beer onto the carpet as his arms swing for balance. He’s obviously drunk.

Once his feet are more or less stable, he blinks at you, arms out and eyebrows furrowed. His startled confusion quickly turns to indignant righteousness. 

“What the hell?” He steps close and you don’t back away.

“Right back at you,” you say. His breath reeks of fermented beer, but you keep your scowl in place, stance wide.

By now, the commotion has drawn eager eyes and ears, and a circle has formed, giving you a narrow perimeter of bodies that serve as a ring for the ensuing altercation. The realization jolts your legs and arms, zaps your heart, and you’ve never felt more terrified or angry or out of control in your life.

Garrett draws himself up, flaunting the couple of inches he has on your height. “What gives you the right—”

“I could ask you the same thing, pal.” Your Boston accent rounds and stretches your vowels, strengthened by your anger. It contrasts sharply with Garrett’s highbrow dialect.

“Jane.” Maura’s voice is quiet, but your ears are attuned to its cadence. Her hand presses between your shoulder blades, and you try to listen to that touch and that voice. You do. But the pounding of your heart is too loud to ignore.

“She said no. That means you stop.”

Garrett’s eyes glance around, and you know he’s also aware of the audience. Of pride and saving face, and it disgusts you. “This is my party,” he begins.

You cut him off. “It’s her body.”

He laughs. He throws his head back and laughs. Something inside you pulls taut and snaps between one guffaw and the next. Besides your brothers, you have never physically fought with another person in your life, but you don’t hesitate to clench your fist and aim it for his jaw.

He raises an arm and blocks it. Gasps, murmurs, and a scattering of cheers echo the blow and emphasize the silence surrounding the tightening circle. Maura’s hand tightens in the cotton of your shirt, stretching the collar tight around your throat.

Garrett lowers his arm and shakes it out. “I was raised to never hurt a lady.” His expression makes it clear you are no longer on that list.

You swallow. _This will not end well_.

“Jane.” The force in her voice, low and serious, draws you up short and you turn to her. Before you can speak, she grasps your wrist and tugs you from the scene, winding through the press of gathered bodies until you are in a different room, away from staring eyes and jeering mouths. Garrett’s calls chase your retreat and are lost amidst heavy bass and chatter. The anger in your chest still burns, fizzles along your neck and between the gaps of your fingers. You’re surprised you can’t hear the sizzles like sparks waiting for tinder to ignite.

Maura turns to you, releasing your wrist, and you take a step back at her expression. Furrowed brows, displeased hazel eyes, the downturn of lips. The rushing pulse of your anger falters, and you feel unsure and drained in its wake. You run a hand through your hair, suddenly aware that you just tried to hit the host of a party to which _she_ invited you. 

“I’m sorry. Did you want to kiss him? He’s drunk, and I thought—”

She waves a hand. “No, I didn’t.” It shakes as she lowers it, but she is surprisingly composed considering what just happened. Your own muscles tremble with adrenaline, but you don’t know if it’s from residual anger or fear. 

“He’s always taken a certain...interest, despite my repeated rebuffs of his advances.” Her eyes travel to your hands, which you clench and hide behind your back, and she looks apologetic. “I didn’t expect him to be so...forward. He’s invited me to these before but I’ve never attended.”

So she didn’t know what to expect. A couple in the corner continue making out against the wall, oblivious, but the other occupants dotting the room give the two of you glances over their red solo cups. You turn your back to them, facing Maura and blocking the stares as best you can, and you become aware of the parallels of this position with Garrett’s from earlier: Maura with her back to a wall, and this time you hover between her and the rest of the room. Granted, it is nothing like him, but you still shuffle back a step lest she feel pressured.

“Well, it’s a real, ah,” you search for a word that is both mild and accurate, “kick.” 

Maura’s disappointment is palatable, and she looks like she’s about to apologize. 

“Sorry,” you say. “I guess I’m not really one for parties.”

“Nor am I,” Maura admits with a rueful smile.

You frown. “Then why…”

Maura ducks her head, a curtain of hair hiding her eyes. “Perhaps I wanted to spend more time with you.”

You wonder if her blush is real or if it is your imagination playing tricks on you. Your smile is one you cannot contain, nor is the rush of warmth that drowns out the noisy shouts of fellow teenagers and pulsing music.

Maybe the night can be salvaged after all.

“C’mon,” you say, and wander through fancy rooms full of drunken bodies and priceless decorations until you find patio doors and fresh air. They open to an expansive pool, underwater lights making the shadows dance with unexpected highlights. As the doors close behind you, the quiet and deserted emptiness is a welcome reprieve, and you breathe a sigh into the scented air.

Chlorine tints the world a light shade of blue. You pad over to the pool’s edge and gaze into the depths, shoes scraping against the smooth tile.

Maura’s steps are lighter in their approach, barely a disturbance in the quiet of the night. Her sandals are hooked around her fingers, her bare feet silent. The blue paints soothing contrasts across her skin and lightens her eyes as she gazes into the water. You watch, unwilling to break the quiet. After a moment she settles on the ground.

You follow, sitting Indian style, and the familiar positioning takes you back to yesterday, sand in your toes and sun on your back. Above you, the stars are barely visible, drowned by ambient light from the nearby city, but there are more constellations than you can usually count from home.

You let out a sigh and become aware of watching eyes.

“Better?” you ask.

She meets your smile with her own. “Better.”

You let the quiet settle for a while, enjoying the comfort of her presence without the need for words. Maura dips her hand into the water, trailing two fingers through the blue. The disturbance casts ripples across her face.

You take a deep breath, and Maura registers the sound as a signal for speech, glancing up. 

“So how exactly do you know tall, dark, and drunk?” You flick an insect into the pool and watch its legs spin as it floats.

She follows the hapless insect with her eyes for a moment, but her face remains bland as she returns to swirling the water. Her spine curves as she bends, graceful and natural. “The Fairfields are friends of the family, and have been for many years.” The water splashes slightly. “It is more an acquaintance of obligation rather than choice.”

“He certainly has the title, and the money to go with it.”

“That he does.” You can’t read her expression, eyes unfocused, fingers still, until she straightens and tosses the water from her hand. “I don’t want to talk about Garrett.”

Fair enough. You sort through and reject several conversation topics, trying to find something to interest this girl who is fascinated with details of the world and misunderstood by the people in it.

“The last time I was at a party I got locked in a closet with a boy.” Over sharing is not one of your faults, so you’re not sure why you allow the admission. 

At Maura’s expression you nod and roll your eyes. “Let’s just say seven minutes in heaven turned into several hours of hell. I don’t have a good track record with parties, either.”

“He didn’t…” She hesitates.

You shake your head. “No, nothing like that. He was nice and all. I just didn’t know back then.”

“Know?” It’s such a simple question. Innocent. 

It takes you a few moments to realize what you’ve said. Your entire body tenses to the point that it’s difficult to breathe and you want to kick yourself. Repeatedly.

Maura’s eyes are expectant and open and gentle and you find it hard to imagine that would change after a few words, yet your life has been nothing but surprises the past few days and you no longer know what to expect.

“Uh,” you stumble over your words, courage battling with self-preservation as you sweat. You honestly don’t know which will win. “Well…”

“Jane.” Her tone is caring and sympathetic, and that’s what pulls it from you. “You don’t…”

“Know that I like girls.” You say it to the water, hair curtaining your face, but your voice is calm, considering. You rub a palm roughly over your knee, pressing the anxiety and tension into your skin and pushing it away from your lungs so you can breathe.

“Ah,” Maura says with a nod. She doesn’t move away or closer, nor does she stare. She just sits, accepting. Like it’s that easy.

Minutes pass, and you regain control of normal body functions. That was both more difficult and much, much easier than you expected. It feels anticlimactic. The aftermath leaves you twitching and tingling with unspent adrenaline. Maura finally looks at you once you slump, reanimated, and your fingers tap a rhythm along the edge of the pool. You wonder if she was waiting, giving you time, aware of your struggle. 

“I do, too.” She says it with a small smile, unafraid to meet your gaze. You wish you had her courage.

You swallow and bob your head. “Okay.”

You’re not ready for in-depth discussions, since you’re drowning in emotions you can’t even name, but it feels nice having it out in the open, to a person of your choosing. You press your feet together, sole to sole, and let your legs splay out to either side. They sink until your knees brush the ground and you feel the tight pull of the stretch in your muscles.

“Back on the beach… Can I ask why you build your sand sculptures so close to the sea?”

She looks out over the water and brings her knees to her chest, resting her chin atop them. You sense her gathering her thoughts, and wait in the ensuing silence, filled only with the gentle shush and small splashes of waves lapping against the barrier beneath your feet.

“I enjoy challenges,” she begins, shifting so her heels rest against the edge of the pool, toes reaching out into empty air. “It gives me something to work towards. Motivation. And,” this part becomes quieter, “it prevents me from becoming too attached.” Her feet flex up and down as her arms wrap tighter around her legs. “I know it will wash away eventually, but this way, it happens at my choosing.”

What had injured this girl, that she finds commitment and longevity a myth?

You brush your thumb against the rough dip between tiles, following the line of the grout until it bends over the lip and out of sight.

“Not everything has to end,” you say. The words aren’t perfect, but they feel true and solid in the night.

She huffs out a laugh and turns her head until she finds your eyes, her cheek resting on her knees. “We’re awfully young to have such certainties.” There is a sadness there you can’t place.

You look at her. You look at her and think, _Here is an old soul_.

The affinity is back. It buzzes in your head and makes your fingers twitch. You want to know her. You want to spend years learning all the intricacies of her mind and the different ways she says your name. The thought scares you. But this time, you let it fill your chest and guide your voice.

“You’re beautiful.” You say it with the quiet power of sincerity. You say it because it is true, and you want her to believe it for herself.

She looks at you like she doesn’t. “Light absorption and scattering.”

“What?”

She gestures to the pool, but you keep your eyes on her face. “Photons enter at one angle, but the water absorbs and disperses the photons based on certain scattering, attenuation, and absorption coefficients, which are determined by the conversion of radiant energy to heat and chemical energy. The same factors also reflect the light back at a different angle. That’s why the view through water, and our perception of depth, is distorted.”

When she catches your continued regard, her voice falters briefly before she continues, “Hence the blue, the good lighting.” Her hand falls to her side. “Lighting is everything.”

“That may be true, but I wasn’t just talking about how you look.”

“Oh.” She blushes, and you want to trace the blossom of color across her cheeks. 

Instead, you clasp your hands together in your lap, tightly. You repeat the movement, feeling your muscles flex. You don’t know if she feels the same, and you are content to be here and talk. A connection like this is not something you’ve experienced before, and you’re still stumbling through the _want_ s and the _maybe_ s and the _have nots_.

Maura shifts in your peripheral, and you fear you’ve crossed a line. The thought tightens your throat.

“Have you ever kissed someone before?”

You nearly swallow your tongue. “Uh…”

Maura scoots closer, so your thighs are almost touching. Not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat from her skin. She pulls your hand into her lap. Slowly, carefully. In case you resist. You don’t. Her fingertips ghost over the skin of your palm and her thumb brushes your knuckles.

It’s not seductive, nor is it suggestive. It’s just...intimacy, with only the possibility of more, not the expectation. There is only the two of you, side by side, and an arm stretched to bridge the gap between.

Your brain finally kicks in, and you remember she asked you a question. About kissing. “No. Not yet.”

Her fingers pause before resuming their course. “So you...wouldn’t be opposed.” The tip of her pointer rounds the ball of your thumb, soft and careful, just like her voice. “If someone wanted to?”

The pool’s filter gurgles, but the sound barely registers. You are more focused on the delicate feel of her skin against yours, and what it might mean. You turn your hand, and at first the movement startles Maura, but you grasp her retreating hand, tug and pull, until palm meets palm and your fingers interlock. You’re not sure if the rapid thrum of pulse you feel is hers or your own. Maura takes a deep breath before meeting your eyes.

“That depends upon who it is,” you whisper.

“Jane…” Exasperation colors her tone, even as she smiles.

You love the way she says your name. You love it so much that you lean forward, wanting to taste how it sounds, and Maura meets you halfway. It’s such a new sensation, her lips against yours, and at first that’s all it is: a touch. Tentative, getting acquainted. Her breath is warm against your cheek as her nose brushes yours. You both pause. Then she tilts her head, changing the angle, and you meet more fully. Heat blooms in your veins, sparking embers of slow growing warmth. A hand raises to cup your cheek, fingers slipping into your hairline, and you press forward, wanting more of this softness, more of her breath turning uneven. More of her smooth skin against yours.

She makes a sound in the back of her throat, low and ragged, and you pull away. “Sorry—” you begin, but Maura shakes her head and murmurs “no” before she tugs you back. You’re more sure this time, and the kiss deepens in a way that steals your breath and pulls fire from your middle.

There is more than one way to drown. You discover this beside a pool while kissing a girl.

“Maura.” You press the word into her skin.

“Mmm?” she hums. The kiss stays gentle and slow as you explore, and you slip an arm around her waist, tugging her closer until your bodies are flush. Her skin radiates heat, even through her blouse, and you splay your fingers across the ridges of her spine.

She is beautiful, like leaf buds in springtime: fragile and daring all at once. You want to tell her again, as her tongue runs along your bottom lip, pulling a rough sound from your own throat.

Shouts erupt into the night, just as a harsh bang issues from behind. 

You pull away, reluctant. Teenagers invade the yard through the swinging patio doors, shouts and music heralding their arrival. They’ve found your hidden oasis, and you let out a sigh. Maura’s still close enough to feel it, wrapped in your embrace. Her eyes remain shut for another second, her lips parted as she takes a breath. Her eyelashes flutter, then lift. The proximity of intelligent hazel makes your heart pound all over again.

You take a moment just to study her, and revel in the feeling of her in your arms.

“Hey.” It’s far too shy and breathless for your liking, but it makes Maura smile. “Want to get out of here? Not for… I mean, just leave.”

Her fingers tighten around the back of your neck before slipping away. “Yeah.” She gathers her bearings and points. “I believe there’s a gate that leads to the front.”

You rise and hold out a hand. She takes it, and you pull her to her feet. 

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief epilogue after this, then an *optional* post-epilogue with an important note prior to reading that I hope everyone uses to determine if they wish to read the fifth and final installment. Thank you to everyone for reading and for your kudos and comments. I'm at hownowwit1 dot tumblr dot com if anyone wishes to chat about the story.


	4. Epilogue

An eight-hour trip starts to feel like fourteen when you have two brothers in the car. You head upstairs as soon as you shake out the pins and needles from your feet. Slinging your backpack onto your desk, you bounce onto the bed and plug in your phone, waiting impatiently for the red no-power bar to disappear.

Your home screen opens at last and you type out a message.

Jane (8:49pm): _Hey, Maur. I’m home._

The reply is almost instantaneous. 

Maura (8:49pm): _Took you long enough._

You laugh out loud. You can hear her, the teasing in her voice.

Jane (8:50pm): _Yeah, well. Traveling with a herd tends to slow things down._

Maura (8:51pm): _I’m sure you’re happy that trip’s over._

Jane (8:52pm): _The car ride, yeah._

You bite your lip, debating your next text. _What the hell?_

Jane (8:52pm): _Spending time with someone I met at the beach...not so much._

Maura (8:52pm): _I think things ended on a good note. :)_

Jane (8:53pm): _No. I’d say they’re just getting started._

There’s a long pause after you send the text, and you can’t hear anything outside the pounding of your heart. Your thumbs tremble slightly at you wait. Eventually, the ellipses begin to dance and you hold your breath.

Maura (9:01pm): _Did you know that octopuses can regrow an arm if a predator catches them?_

You smile and settle back on your bed, phone aloft. The screen’s glow lights your room and brightens your face as you reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this a fitting end to the start of their beginning. Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a comment if you'd like to let me know your thoughts. Constructive criticism and praise welcome.


	5. Post-Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wit’s A/N: If you want to remain un-spoiled for what’s to come, continue on and skip this note. Otherwise, please be advised: If you want this story to remain fluff, don’t read this last chapter. It’s optional, and will destroy that warm feeling in your chest. I feel like I should take the blame for this last part. So if you enjoy angst, by all means, continue on dear reader. If not, click away now and bask in the beauty that is young love, secure in Maura and Jane’s future, so rife with possibilities. Thank you for reading.

“That’s a lovely beginning, Jane.”

Her voice snaps you back into the office. The earthy scents of leather and lavender, mixed with the musty overtones of old books, reorients you. Windows brighten the walls and comfortable furniture dots the professional landscape, helping to ease any nerves from the atmosphere. You settle back into the plush leather loveseat, hands tangled in your lap. 

_Maura would like it here_ , you think. It’s automatic, a thought without thought behind it. 

Dr. Robichek regards you from the chair mirroring yours, her smile understanding and patient. It makes you aware of your own. The smile on your face, the stretch of muscles and skin into an expression of joy, feels foreign. Her words repeat in your mind.

_A lovely beginning_.

Something inside you coils so tightly it breaks.

_A lovely beginning, Jane_.

“It is, isn’t it?” you finally say, feeling your smile fade.

Dr. Robichek leans forward, uncrossing her legs and setting her writing pad onto her lap. Her regard doesn’t bother you as much as it did at the start. She doesn’t push, and you appreciate that.

“Jane, you don’t have to feel ashamed to smile, to remember,” she says, then pauses, searching your face. “Or to cry.”

You turn your head sharply to the right. Oak leaves crowd the view from the window, basking in bright sunlight, their dark veins visible from underneath. A breeze shuffles the scene and you can hear the rustle in your mind, feel the brush of soft strands of hair across your face, feel an arm wrap around your waist in a close embrace. Clenching your fists, you stride to the window and gaze out at sidewalk pedestrians as they pass. Life goes on. You struggle to remind yourself of this every morning.

“We got married after college. Well, medical school for her.” You twist the ring on your finger, feeling the diamond shush along your skin with each revolution. You don’t think you’ll ever take it off.

Your smile fades. “We always joked it was ironic, you know? Back when… Before. Her being in medicine and all.” Your voice goes quiet. “We thought she could beat it.”

“Grief is a process, Ms. Isles.”

You close your eyes and turn away, returning to your seat.

“While it can push some to extremes,“ the scars at your wrists twinge with latent intent, “it is possible to live with loss.”

You scoff, the sound bitter and incredulous, and she nods her head as though conceding a point.

“I never said it would be easy. I won’t lie to you.” She waits, but you don’t respond. “When you’re ready, we can talk about the end. For now, tell me more about her. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Her words trigger a memory so strong you grip the expensive leather of the chair as emotion batters your chest.

IVs and tubes. Sterile. White. Everything was white. Her skin, the sheets, the walls. Everything but those hazel eyes, large and wise and knowing. She looked so small, so frail beneath the thin sheets on that hospital bed. Her voice had changed after the treatment. A little softer, a little fragile.

She caught you crying one day, the time drawing near. You felt it in your bones, the way dogs sense earthquakes just before the world crashes and crumbles.

“Sweet girl.”

You knew she’d caught you by the inflection, the way her voice cradled the words, as though to keep them from piercing you.

She raised her hand and you went to her side, cupping her small wrist within your large palms. You were careful now, afraid any sharp tug or pressure would damage something so precious.

“This is not an end, sweet girl.”

“Sure feels like one,” you said with a wet chuckle. You swiped the heel of your hand against your cheeks.

“No.” Her voice was calm, and she smiled up at you. You felt that familiar niggle of doubt once again, as though she knew much more than you would ever know—this you knew to be true—and it made you question. It made you hope. And those were dangerous emotions but you couldn’t help it and you suspected she was doing it on purpose. More tears leaked out.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s an interlude. Between acts one and two.”

You wrapped a gentle hand around her head, fingertips gliding against her smooth scalp. Her eyelids fluttered. She always enjoyed the sensation. Her colorful beanie sat on the side table. She refused to wear it anymore. When her eyes stayed closed for a bit too long, a knife of something hot and desperate sliced through you.

You weren’t ready for act one to end.

“How do you figure that?” you said.

Her eyes opened once more, and you wondered again how those pools of hazel could look so bright and alive while her body was slowly giving up. How cruel, to house such magnificence in a defective shell and force that brilliance to fade before its time. You’d raged and raged, and she told you to stop months ago or you’d burn yourself up.

She squeezed your hand, one corner of her mouth quirking up as she met your gaze. You had never felt so close and so distant at the same time. Helpless.

“Someone once told me that not all things have to end.”

_God_. You squeezed your eyes tight, a brief battle against the burning, and stroked her temple with a thumb. She brought your hand to her lips to kiss your knuckles.

“And I believe her,” she whispered, pressing the words into your skin.

You rested your forehead against hers, closing your eyes and feeling the brush of her nose against yours. Breathing her in.

“Then I’ll see you at the finale.”

She laughed, the warm puff of her breath ghosting along your lips. “Don’t be late, love.”

“I won’t.”

It’s a promise you intend to keep.

You still wonder to this day if she knew. If she suspected. All those years ago, or even a single year prior. Would it have made a difference? Finding it sooner? Or would it have stolen even more time from your happily ever after?

You take in a deep breath, the air shaky as it enters your lungs, and meet Dr. Robichek’s gaze.

“It wasn’t an end,” you say. The conviction in your voice, despite its waver, makes her tilt her head in surprise. 

“It wasn’t?”

You shake your head and feel your smile grow, tremulous but real. “It’s an interlude.”

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wit's A/N: This chapter is very personal to me. We never know what life has in store for us. It’s what we do with the time we’re given that matters. This Maura and Jane had the gift of many happy years together. In that way, they will always be blessed.


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